Worthless
by Kentra02
Summary: What was Wufei's life like at age 13, before he became a soldier?


Title: Worthless  
  
Author: Kentra Shinataku  
  
Anime: Gundam Wing  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Warnings: Angst, Death, Pre-war, Wufei-POV, ficlet  
  
Pairings: None. (Implied that Wufei would marry Meiran, but never mentions attraction to her.)  
  
Archive: http://www.deathandpassion.cjb.net, if you want it, ask and ye shall receive.  
  
Category: Angst  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing; I merely enjoy toying with the pre-defined characters of Gundam Wing.  
  
Summary: What was Wufei's life like at age 13, before he became a soldier?  
  
Feedback: I appreciate both positive and negative.  
  
Written for and dedicated to Akutenshi for her birthday, June 29, 2003.  
  
**********  
  
Worthless  
  
The glow of gold that flows in a steady stream beneath the door of my bedroom sharply clicks to black, letting my eyes fully adjust to the darkness and ensuring my freedom. Sort of. The pent up tears that are burning my eyelids finally slip down my cheek, slowly, as if they are reluctant to fall, as if they're afraid, and maybe they don't want to retreat from hiding, they don't want to step into my world.   
  
I don't blame them.  
  
I hear a small, protesting groan from the bed in the room across the hallway. My parents will be fast asleep in a matter of minutes, unable to hear me drowning through the night as I lie awake here, swimming through the hurt they've bestowed upon me, the hurt I carry that they don't even see. They will never see it; they inflicted it themselves, and they are too dazzled in their own world of perfection to see what they've done to me. I want them to experience what I do when they make me feel this worthless. But I'll never be able to make them. I won't be able to introduce them to this suffocating world of pain, this airless hell that chokes my lungs day by day.  
  
They know exactly what they do to me; they know it hurts when they throw things at me, when they hit me, when they call me a lazy ass while I'm serving them hand and foot, trying desperately to meet their every desire. I speak of honor, but there is no honor in who I am, in what I do. They know it hurts when they throw me into the wall, when they pull my hair, when my head joins a rude introduction to the mirror. I bet the Gods are watching me, laughing. They know it hurts when they call me incapable, when they call me hideous, when they call me worthless. They know it, but they can't see it, can't admit what they're doing.  
  
I hear the soft whisperings of reluctance on the air, flowing quietly from their doorway, but I can still hear their words. I don't think they were trying very hard to keep their voices down.  
  
"Perhaps we shouldn't have had any children," mother whispers, to which my father adds, "It's a shame he didn't turn out more like Meiran did. Hopefully she will be able to turn him into a real man."  
  
I want to leave this hell I call home, this broken family I consider my only 'loved ones'. But I can't consider them 'loved' if there is no love. I don't love them, and they don't love me, not by a long shot. They loathe me and ridicule me, they despise and insult me. They are not my family. Family is a knot tied with love and tender emotions, a unity between father and mother, parent and child, and there is no love in this one, only hatred and spite.  
  
I can hear the soft breathing now, assuring me that I am alone. I'm free from them, for a few hours of pure solitude, in a room where I know nothing but fear. I don't want to be alone, yet that is all I want. I want to belong somewhere, I want to belong to someone as a _person_ and not a possession, not a servant. I want to be loved. I want to know what it's like to be hugged, to be touched, to be welcomed home, to honestly say I've got somewhere that I'm accepted.  
  
My tears have stopped by now, but they're longing to break free again, to overpower my pride and liberate me from this weight I'm carrying. But they are prisoners too, caged, as I am inside this home, inside this body. They can't be free until I am free.  
  
I can set them free, though, I know I can. They don't need to be trapped any longer. Let them take flight, let them take me. It would be so easy, I just can't get caught. Not until it's over.   
  
My hand slides under the mattress, smooth, as if rehearsed, I know exactly where the object of my desire is hidden. It's comfortable in my hands, the hands that haven't yet fully grown. Too bad they won't have a chance to. The knife glides along the skin and I feel no pain. More like a comfort, like a quilt laid over me to blanket my fears. The blade feels good, cutting into my wrist, it feels better then the life I'm living. What would Meiran say, to see me like this? She'd laugh in my face. She'd call me a coward. She'd tell me that there is no honor in what I'm doing.  
  
And she'd be right.   
  
I can't do this alone in the dark. Am I too afraid to know, to look at myself, to see what I am really doing to myself? I'm a coward and I know it. I can make it to the bathroom without being heard; only my bare feet are skilled at stalking the house in silence. My door doesn't even creak as I open it, and the long hallway is kind to me, not emitting any abnormal groans of aged stress. I close the bathroom door behind me and flip the light switch silently, temporarily blinding my eyes. They adjust quickly enough, though, so that I can see a pale, trembling boy in the mirror staring back at me. This boy is my only friend, my worst enemy. What's wrong with him, I wonder? Why is he shaking like this? What has he seen, what has he endured? His raven black hair is matted down, slicked back over his head as he always wears it, but he looks as if he's also drenched in sweat. He wipes his face with his arm, and I watch, incredulous, as blood smears over his face, a sharp contrast to his pale skin.  
  
There is a knife in his hand, one that is jagged and I know it can cut deep. I know what he is going to do.   
  
I hear a slight cough down the hall, obviously from my parents' bedroom. Mother must have woken up for a moment. I hope she doesn't have to use the bathroom.   
  
I urge my friend to hurry up, to do what he needs to do, just in case, in case there isn't time. He's suffocating, he tells me, too much pressure, he says, too much pain. He says he doesn't want it to end this way; he doesn't want to be such a coward. He feels just as I do. I tell him to hurry, to get on with it. I know how he feels.  
  
I wonder what's happened to him to make him feel this worthless. I watch him, completely numb to the situation, my best friend dying by his own knife swiftly flitting across his neck. Or was that my knife?  
  
********** 


End file.
